Chains
by phantomphan2000
Summary: Lucifer is wearing Sam to the prom, Dean's in prison, and Bobby and Cas are MIA. Meanwhile, demons are roaming the earth, and the Apocalypse looms ever closer. . . .
1. Lucky 13

**A/N: AU, set sometime near the end of Season 5. **

**Disclaimer: Don't own SPN.**

**Summary: Lucifer is wearing Sam to the prom, Dean's in prison, and Bobby and Cas are MIA. Meanwhile, demons are roaming the earth, and the Apocalypse looms ever closer. . . . **

**Lucky 13**

Three bangs on steel, a guard taunting, "Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!" and he's pushing himself from the cot, feeling more exhausted than when he fell asleep. He's itching to let his voice rip from his chest, to reach through the bars and squeeze the life from the guard, but the generous collection of scars on his back suddenly seem to burn—ghosts of past offenses.

So he keeps his mouth shut and silently gets to his feet.

A pathetic tray of food sits idly near the cell door, though it looks far from appetizing—as always—and for a moment, he lets his stomach growl.

It's been almost a year since he was brought to this prison. He woke up one morning in the same cell he occupies now, confused and bandaged, bruised and bloody. His mind was completely blank, and it scared him. He couldn't remember a damn thing. Not his name, not his past. Nada.

Back then, he'd had a cell mate named John. Why the name had struck such a chord, he still didn't know. Though the guy had been good company. John had told stories of hunting things, terrible things, things that seemed too far–fetched to be real. Supernatural things.

Yet he'd believed every word.

During that time, he'd learned about ghosts, ghouls, vampires, spirits—the most common creatures out there, according to John. Stuff hunters could kill with their eyes closed. Hunters who risked their lives on a daily basis to save innocent people.

But then John had told him about the demons.

John had been in prison for quite some time before he had, and claimed that demons guarded the place. For the limited time John had spent outside of his cell, he'd found other hunters like himself, who had also woken up here, memories intact more often than not. Other prisoners confirmed his theory about the demons. Apparently, they had the power to control a human body.

"Have you ever seen one before?" John had asked, trying to jog his memory. "They have black eyes."

He thought long and hard, but no memory of such beings came to mind. He'd shaken his head and sighed in frustration. All the memories he _could_ remember were associated with the prison. And he rarely saw guards—except at night and in the morning to feed inmates—let alone one with black eyes.

John hadn't been altogether surprised at this, saying they could easily conceal the dark orbs. "Tricky sons–of–bitches. Know your life story as soon as they take you over. Scary as hell. Even happened to me, once. Good thing my brother was there with salt and Holy water. Saved my life." He'd then revealed a tattoo on his shoulder hidden by a navy–colored sleeve. "Anti–possession symbol. Got it right after."

John's stories kept him awake that night. The guy had a brother who was also a hunter, who'd saved his life, who fought evil alongside him.

Why did that sound so . . . familiar?

He'd tossed and turned, plagued by unanswered questions. Each a puzzle piece he forced together, only for it break and crumble to bits, leaving him more confused than before.

He heard whispers of an escape plan whenever he was released for an hour every two days. During this time, you were expected to shower, dress, and report back to your designated cell.

His cell number was thirteen.

The first time he'd showered, he had noticed the marking on his chest. At first, he'd thought every inmate probably had them, as some symbol of imprisonment. Later, when John had shown the same tattoo, he'd figured something similar had happened in his own past, that maybe he had been a hunter himself.

One morning on his way to shower, John noticed a guard kicking a man on the floor. He stood up to the guard, and a vicious fight had followed. He'd been dragged away unconscious with a busted lip and blood pouring down his face. Everyone in the shower room had watched in horror, not one man moving to assist John, who never returned to the cell after that.

Many claimed the guard had eyes as black as coal, but he'd never know if that was true; only one cell mate could shower at a time.

Rarely did the men ever see women in the prison. They had their own separate wing on the other side of the building, and he assumed they were hunters who had also been captured by demons and suffered the same conditions as the men.

He returned his attention back to the tray of food. The portions were barely the size of a fist, served only twice a day. Just enough to keep you alive; but he'd been starving for the past year.

He'd tried to rebel early on, refused to eat and left the slimy trays untouched, but the guards had beaten him severely for it. He'd even tried flushing it once, but they'd somehow known about that too.

The stone walls always made him feel extremely vulnerable rather than safe. He could only see through the bars of the cell door, stone blocking his view on the remaining three sides, which put him at a disadvantage; he hardly ever knew when guards were passing by unless he listened closely for their soft footsteps.

The only way he knew it had been a month since John's disappearance was by the small window positioned near the ceiling. Days brought unbearable heat, nights the coldest of chills. There had been talk recently of a man who had frozen to death in his cell one night, though no one seemed to speak much in this hopeless existence, most fearful of punishment.

Now, with John gone, life in the demonic prison was even harder. There wasn't a soul he knew outside the cell. Though, lately, they'd been talking practically nonstop about him. He ignores the whispering for the most part, knowing John's disappearance is likely the reason for it.

He eats, showers, and lies down on the cot, eyes cast upwards at a few cracks in the ceiling. He wishes he could break through the stone and see the stars one more time before he dies here. Escape would be impossible. Many have died trying.

A tiny crack in the wall catches his attention. He lifts a finger to trace it, feel the smooth material beneath the tips. He adds pressure to the spot and his heart almost skips a beat when he realizes the stone is loose.

He jumps from the cot and leans against the bars to search for any guards. Most inmates have settled for the rest of the day, having already showered and eaten. He listens, but doesn't hear any heavy boots on the concrete floor. Security cameras are located at the end of each hall, and luckily for him, cell thirteen is near the middle where neither camera can fully see into.

It takes some work, but he manages to pull it free, listening for guards at regular intervals. Hidden in the hollowed–out stone is a leather book filled with drawings and descriptions, some in Latin and other languages he's surprised to find he understands.

On the inside of the front cover is the name John Ramsey.

**So, what do you think? Should I continue?**


	2. Ghosts and Idjits

**A/N: Sorry for not updating sooner! Thanks for all the support, and please R&R!**

**Disclaimer: I can't even count how many times I've played in Kripke's sandbox.**

**Ghosts and Idjits**

He smiles at the reflection in the cracked mirror. Of course, the face isn't his, but it may as well be.

Because he controls it. _Owns_ it.

_Just you wait, Sammy, _he thinks._ The real fun's about to begin._

Dean's little brother is as quiescent as ever.

The devil chuckles softly; because he couldn't have asked for a better vessel.

* * *

><p>He spends most of the night reading by moonlight streaming in through the barred window.<p>

Everything John told him has been written down in a journal of sorts—past encounters with monsters, their weaknesses, abilities, sketches. General but useful information.

The type that could mean the difference between life and death.

A few quiet clips against concrete and he's hurriedly shoving the journal under his cot, scrambling to appear fast asleep. He shifts onto his side and faces away from the cell door, breathing as soundlessly as possible as his heart hammers painfully beneath his chest, mouth and throat drier than the Sahara.

Keys jangle, the door opens with a loud creak, and he's shivering so damn bad he thinks they'll notice. But the guards pay him no mind. Something hits the ground hard with an odd wheezing sound, the door clangs shut, and two pairs of footsteps fade away into the night.

He lies without moving for the longest time, silently warring with himself. Should he move and risk the chance of being seen? By the sound of those sharp intakes of breath, he's not alone. Someone's in the cell with him. Only . . . how can he know if they're a friend or foe?

The wheezing continues for a moment. And then all sound dissipates like a bad dream, like cotton somehow wedged its way inside each ear. It's so still and quiet he thinks it's a possibility that his visitor has decided to take a snooze.

Or that he imagined the whole thing.

So, very carefully, he sits up on the cot. To his right on the hard floor lies an older man with a scruffy beard, left cheek pressed to the cool ground. Lids shield eyes from the confines of the cell, mouth open slightly; a blue hat sits just out of the stranger's reach. Even from this angle, he can tell the man is balding.

He stands and steps forward. The slumbering guy remains still, dead to the world. He kneels and holds a out a hand—warm air meets the open palm.

That's when he notices the eyes have opened.

The man is suddenly awake and scrambling away from him, muttering incoherent words that sound suspiciously like curses. He backs into the stone wall where shadows successfully conceal all features. When he steps toward the stranger, moonlight illuminates a pale hand that prevents advancement.

"Who are you?" the man asks, fear evident in a deep tone. "What do you want?"

He tries to respond, but his voice is hoarse from lack of use. Clearing his throat and swallowing once, he shifts forward, offering a hand to assure his visitor that he is not a threat.

But just as he parts his cracked lips, the man beats him to it.

"Dean?"

* * *

><p>It's a while before the man speaks again. The newcomer can only stare at the prisoner, mouth parted in silent surprise, face blanched.<p>

Like he's seen a ghost.

But this just confuses the hell out of him. _Dean_? The name sounds strangely familiar, as if he's heard it before, like he should know the guy. Maybe Robert is mistaking him for someone else in the prison.

Because that can't be _his_ name.

"Are you looking for someone?"

The stranger sighs. "I was. Load of good it did me, too, winding up here. But there's no use in bellyachin' about it now. Found you, didn't I?" His mouth pulls up slightly at one corner.

He frowns. This man obviously thinks he's this guy named Dean. His eyebrows stitch together. "You were looking for me?"

The man looks stung. " 'Course I was," he says, then scoffs as if the surprise in the prisoner's tone is familiar, as if he's experienced it countless times before. "Really keep you in lockdown mode here, don't they?" When he receives no response, he adds, "Jesus, kid. You look like hell."

Before he can ask who the man is, a sharp pain shoots through his skull. He grunts and slaps a hand to his forehead.

_...Lightning flashes, thunder rumbles; impenetrable darkness surrounds him on all sides. Voices taunt him just outside the range of his vision._

_Chains are everywhere. Black, always black. Hung in random arrangements, draped above and below, pulled taut. _

_No matter the direction, they all lead back to him._

_Cuffed to his wrists and ankles. Fastened to a meat hook jabbed into his shoulder. He screams for help, for someone, _anyone_. . . . For—_

"Dean? Hey, you with me?"

The face of the stranger swims above him as his eyesight returns. He accepts a blurry hand that brings him vertical, though he feels as if he's sprinted through a marathon. Hunched over, he gulps in air and tries to understand what the hell just happened.

When he finally does regain his breath, the next question is pointed at the man: "How do you know me?"

The guy frowns, then looks the prisoner up and down once, realization slowly dawning on his face. "Oh, no... _No_! What did they do to you, Dean? They wipe your mind with demon disinfectant?"

"What are you talking about?"

The man loses control for a split second and kicks the cell door, which rattles loudly. "_Dammit_!"

"Hey, watch it! They'll have both our asses for that!" he whispers heatedly.

The newcomer snatches the hat from the floor, shoves it on his head, then stands right in front the man he believes to be Dean. "Go on, look me in the eye and tell me you have no idea who I am."

Somewhat hesitantly, he obeys. But there's no recognition whatsoever displayed in the confused features of his face.

The man sighs. "It's me, ya idjit. It's Bobby."


	3. Dance With the Devil

**A/N: I've been busy working on my other SPN story Right Behind You, and realized this one deserved an update. **

**Disclaimer: Kripke's a lucky man.**

**Dance With the Devil**

Dean—if that really is his name—feels as if he's standing on his head while trying to take a wild shot in the dark. Robert? _Bobby_? Like John, the name gets a reaction: his stomach does an uncomfortable drop, his heart rate shifts into another gear, fluttering madly like it has wings. It's like he's on a roller coaster.

But, still . . . who _is_ this guy?

He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I don't remember . . ."

Bobby appears indifferent until you look at his eyes and see right through him; he gives a casual shrug to wave the problem away, struggling to suppress whatever emotions he's warring with. So the old man _does_ care more than he'd originally thought. " 'Course you don't," the older man says. "How could ya? What with a bunch of demons runnin' the place. Damn near impossible." Bobby makes himself at home and sits down on the cot, glancing up at the moonlight shining in through the square opening.

Suddenly, he has the urge to ask if, on the way to the cell, Bobby saw John. He had already accepted John probably hadn't come back for a reason, and Bobby's appearance only supported that theory, but it couldn't hurt to see if the man knew anything else of importance. Lowering his voice to a whisper, Dean breathes, "Did you . . . see anything?"

Bobby frowns.

"On your way here, I mean."

"Besides demons and prisoners?" The man tilts his head a bit, thinking. "Just the front of the prison. Had me blindfolded up till then."

Dean lowers his head, feeling defeated. He knows fences coiled with barbed wire enclose the prison on every side, knows it is the only barrier separating prisoners from freedom if they ever manage to make it past the guards and secured doors. He knows these things from overhearing conversations on his way to and from showers. He knows he's not the only hunter who wants out, who's thought constantly of an escape plan.

"So, you a hunter?" Dean gaze shifts automatically to the cell door, scanning the area for guards, knowing they can appear at any given moment. "Bobby?" he adds, the name rolling easily off his tongue.

" 'fraid so, kid."

"And how do you know me?" Dean asks again.

Bobby almost blanched in the pale light, his gut all twisted up in knots. "Well," he whispers, trying to keep the panic out of his voice, "I knew your dad way back when, and there were times, during a hunt, he'd leave you and your brother with me at my place."

Dean swallows hard. "My brother?"

Bobby's heart skips a beat painfully in his chest and just about stops. A Dean that doesn't remember his own _brother_? The one he's always tried to keep safe, from going dark side, _human_? That alone put up a dozen more red flags. "Yeah, Sam," he continues. "Your dad, John—he always told you to look out for him, being the big brother and all."

His dad, John. His little brother, Sam. Bobby, a friend of his dad's. Dean's brain felt like it'd popped like a balloon with the overload of info. How could he not remember, not _know_ he had a family? How could someone just forget about their life? How did you wind up in a prison full of hunters and guarded by demons with no memory of anything?

At least he knows why the names sounded familiar before.

"How do you . . ." Dean trails off, taking a seat next to Bobby on the cot. He tries to rephrase the question. "How can you still remember—?"

"Everything?" Bobby provides.

Dean nods.

"Well, I like to think it's because of my looks." Bobby adjusts the cap on his head, smirking when the kid practically chokes on his own spit at the sight. Then he sighs. "I don't know, Dean. Why they chose you to tamper with . . . and _only_ you—" He quirks an eyebrow. "Unless you know of any others whose brain got scrambled?"

Dean shakes his head. "Where's my brother, Bobby? And my dad?"

Bobby closes his eyes for a moment. He opens them only after he's decided to answer the easier of the two questions first. "Your daddy died a couple years back. Made a deal with a demon to save your life: his life for yours."

Something is boiling up inside Dean, slowly. He doesn't notice his hands have curled into fists until he starts speaking, realizing anger is what he's experiencing. "Why would he do that?" he nearly growls. "Why would he end his life to save me? If I was already halfway gone—"

"You were, son," Bobby interrupts gently. "And I don't blame him for what he did."

Dean's jaw clenches. "Yeah, well, we wouldn't be stuck here in this hellhole if he hadn't."

Bobby's face falls. "You don't mean that—"

"The _hell_ I don't!" Dean whisper–shouts furiously. He pushes himself to his feet and paces a few moments within the small space, breathing deeply, trying to calm himself. Finally, he turns back to Bobby when he thinks he can control his temper and asks, "What about my brother? Is he dead too because of me?"

Bobby frowns and looks away, avoiding meeting Dean's insisting stare. "No," he says eventually. "He's alive. But he's trapped."

Dean doesn't hesitate. "Where?"

"Not anywhere you can get to him. Trust me, I've tried." Bobby shifts uncomfortably on the cot, exposing his forearm. He notices Dean study the anti–possession symbol tattoo there. "I tried _everything_, Dean—we all did. No one could reach him."

Dean goes silent for a moment. Then—

"Who trapped him?"

Bobby meets Dean's steady gaze. "The name Lucifer ring any bells?"

Dean scowls—the name rings _several_ bells in his head. Warning bells. And Dean knows it's because familiarity has recently become his specialty.


End file.
